


So Grand at the Game

by nameless_bliss



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, David Rose Deserves Nice Things, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Fluff, If Dan Levy doesn't care about the timeline why should I, M/M, POV David Rose, Present Tense, Sexual Content, takes place during season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-20 06:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss
Summary: Patrick doesn’t respond correctly - because Patrick has never once responded correctly to David being horrible. He just takes another sip of tea, and fucking smiles again.“What?” David snaps.“Nothing, I just-”He stops, mouth still open, sound still somewhere in his throat. Then he laughs again. It’s quieter this time, more to himself, like he’s surprised himself with it. It’s infuriating, and it’s adorable, and David doesn’t get it.Or, five times Patrick almost said "I love you", and one time David said it first.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 88
Kudos: 797





	So Grand at the Game

**Author's Note:**

> "It always feels like there’s a bit of a game being played between these guys. But the game is played with love and when the game is no longer, they can drop the game and be there for each other." - Noah Reid ([x](https://decider.com/2019/03/20/noah-reid-interview-schitts-creek/))

1

David tugs up his sleeve to check his watch. Then he remembers that he doesn’t wear a watch, and takes out his phone instead. He winds the string of the tea bag around his finger and bops it up and down as he pulls up the clock so he can watch the seconds pass… and pass… and pass… 

Until three minutes have gone by. Then he squeezes the bag against the side of the cup with a stir stick - which has always seemed unnecessary to him, but he’s aware that there’s a way these things are done. He tosses the bag in the trash, and then pours in a careful, _careful_ amount of milk from the little bottle in the Cafe’s pitifully-understocked “coffee bar” (he hadn’t even known that they make off-brand Splenda). He stirs, he puts the lid back on, he double- and triple-checks that it’s secure, and-

And… that’s it? 

David takes a step back. He tilts his head. He puts his hands on his hips. He looks at the little cup with its little lid and its little cardboard sleeve. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right, or there was no fucking point.And it looks right - it looks about as right as a beverage from the Cafe can look, anyway. 

Good. Alright.

Good.

Patrick seems like the kind of person who throws a bag of Lipton in a mug and microwaves the whole mess in direct defiance of any higher power. It had been a surprise for David to notice that Patrick carefully steeps his loose leaf Earl Grey for three minutes, that he always takes it with a little bit of milk, and that he likes to drink it while it’s so scorchingly hot that it must burn his taste buds off anyway so why even fucking bother? But still, David likes that Patrick has a _process_ for tea. It’s hardly surprising that he’s meticulous, it’s just surprising to see him be meticulous about something that involves good taste - instead of, like, taxes. Or laundry. 

David crosses the street with his perfectly-prepared tea just as a _horde_ of people file out of the store, loudly and gratingly perky, every one of them armed with a tote. David can only assume a rural Sex and the City brunch just ended with some self-care indulgences - and probably at least half a dozen bottles of rosé between them. He stops on the sidewalk for a second. He watches the crowd flit away. He looks at the totes, the logos, the products in their hands. He presses his lips together. And he commits it to memory. He tucks it away, makes it something he can keep, something he can pull out later and say ‘Look, it works. Look, I did something right.’

The bell chimes above his head, and the jazz hits his ears, and he breathes a little easier than he did outside. The store is mercifully vacant after what must have been a mad rush for one person to handle. There’s still a bit of a hectic vibe lingering: products a little disorganized, floor a little scuffed-

And Patrick, a little frenzied. 

It’s not much - Patrick doesn’t really _do_ frenzy - but David can still see it. His shoulders are a little too tight as he hangs more totes on the hook behind the counter with one hand, rips errant receipt paper off the printer with the other, and clearly identifies a dozen other things to fix while he’s doing it. He doesn’t even turn when he hears the bell. He tilts his head slightly in the direction of the door and calls, “Welcome to Rose Apothecary, I’ll be with you in a second.” 

There’s something good David could say to that. ‘Pretty sure I can find my own way around, thanks,’ is the first his brain supplies, followed by a more succinct, ‘I know more than you’.

But for now, he decides to not say anything at all. Instead, he lets himself have this moment, watching quietly as Patrick straightens out the cuticle oils and grabs a bag of coffee from off the stationery display. David could say something, clear his throat, get his attention. But he kind of wants to watch Patrick see him. He wants to watch as Patrick turns around to put the coffee back in its place. He wants to watch Patrick look up, and see him… 

Patrick’s face is perfectly blank. He looks at David, like it takes a second to process the sight of him-

And he laughs. It’s so sudden and loud and _complete_ that David glances over his shoulder to see what the fuck he’s laughing at. But there’s nothing, because it’s him. 

“Um, hi?” David says, in a way that makes it clear that he very much _isn’t_ amused by Patrick’s little inside joke with himself. “Did I miss something?”

Patrick ducks his head. He presses a hand to his mouth, fingers splayed across his lips. But it doesn’t stop him, he’s still laughing. “No, it’s not- I-” he gets himself back together, containing it all to a few chuckles and a big, dumb grin. “I didn’t think I was gonna see you today.”

David can hear that _tone_ in his voice, so he tries to come up with something - _anything_ to say before Patrick has the chance to-

“And I’m not used to you getting here so soon after opening, even on days when you’re actually working. Seeing you before ten on your day off is truly a special occasion, and I’m just- well, I’m honored.”

“Okay,” David says sharply, because that’s a bit _much._ “I was actually here to do something nice, but now I’m reconsidering.”

Patrick makes a patronizing little noise as he comes closer, getting right into David’s space. David prepares himself for another smartass comment, and it’s a pleasant surprise when he’s given a kiss instead. It’s quick and close-lipped, disappointingly safe for work, and so much nicer than it has any right to be. 

Patrick pulls away, and there’s something soft and warm in his smile and it’s _awful,_ it’s not what David was expecting, it’s not something he’s capable of handling this early in the morning (or any other time of day).

So he takes a little step back, trying to get himself out of the gravitational pull, the danger zone. “So… here,” he hands Patrick the tea and makes a clean escape, busying himself with straightening the coffee bag Patrick just set back on the table, even though it wasn’t crooked. 

Patrick holds the cup with this look on his face, and while it’s theoretically nice in its dopeyness, it also has such a clear tint of surprise that it makes David’s skin crawl. It’s a cup of tea, it shouldn’t be some sort of _shocking_ gesture for David to bring him the fucking tea that he drinks every fucking morning.

Still, he can’t help but watch - nonchalantly, casually, out of the corner of his eye - as Patrick takes a sip, and gets his first taste…

And smiles. It’s a small, secretive thing, no doubt meant to be kept between himself and the cup. But David sees it and feels something in his chest get a little bit bigger. It’s another thing he can save, another memory for the Things He Got Right archive. 

David keeps rearranging the coffee, then he tidies up the jars of honey so all the labels are facing out, then he checks the produce-

“You’re not very good at this whole ‘day off’ thing,” Patrick says, while David moves the most attractive carrots to a more prominent spot. “I thought the idea was to stay home and relax.”

“Mm, I think you may be overestimating how much _relaxing_ can be done in a room where Alexis is studying for an Intro to Statistics quiz. Besides, generally speaking, I have no interest in being there,” he gestures vaguely out the window, “when I could be…” he makes the same gesture at the floor, but slower, weaker, because… “here.”

Well, fuck. That ended up being embarrassingly more sincere than he’d wanted it to be. All of a sudden, coming in on his only day off with a tea that’s been prepared to the letter and wasn’t remotely asked for just feels like… 

A lot. It’s a lot. It wasn’t the plan. 

Fuck. 

Panic. Panic seems like the appropriate reaction. 

“So congratulations on being _mildly_ more tolerable company than my sister.” He says it sharper than he needs to, just to be safe. 

But Patrick doesn’t respond correctly - because Patrick has never once responded correctly to David being horrible. He just takes another sip of tea, and fucking _smiles_ again. 

“What?” David snaps. 

“Nothing, I just-”

He stops, mouth still open, sound still somewhere in his throat. Then he laughs again. It’s quieter this time, more to himself, like he’s surprised himself with it. It’s infuriating, and it’s adorable, and David doesn’t get it. 

Patrick runs his thumb across his lip (David has to fight back a sudden burst of Shakespearean jealousy for that stupid thumb), still smiling, still laughing a bit- giggling, would this be considered giggling? He holds the cup in both hands as he quiets down, staring at the lid in what appears to be intense contemplation. “Y’see, David, the thing is…” He looks up again, face pinched with embarrassment. “This is also _my_ day off from you, and. You being here is kinda ruining that for me.”

David presses his lips together, because he is _not_ going to dignify that with a smile - even if one is trying to tug its way onto his face. “I don’t think you can get uppity about how I choose to spend my free time. This is a public place.”

“The store’s actually for customers only,” Patrick says, in a politely regretful Customer Service voice. “If you’re just here to loiter, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Um, _excuse_ me.” David makes a pointed show of shuffling around two jars of moisturizer. “Does this look like loitering? To me, it looks like I’m _helping_ because you apparently can’t keep this place in order without me.”

“Well stop that, we don’t have the budget to give you overtime.”

David prepares a sharp comeback about how that’s obviously bullshit-

But he decides against it, because he’s not actually a hundred percent sure about that (and if there’s an opportunity for overtime pay, he’s sure as hell not going to burn that bridge). Besides, he’s still feeling out how resolved Patrick really is about this, whether he’s genuinely putting his foot down, or just playing along for the sake of it. David’s been looking forward to his day off all week, but now that he’s here… the time away is a little less attractive than it was before. He watches Patrick smile into another sip of tea, and he kind of starts to wonder if any of his other plans for the day could really outdo staying right here. 

Maybe that’s not actually his decision to make, though, because Patrick catches his eye again and his smile disappears. “David, I’m serious. Customers only.”

David frowns. Or tries to, anyway. He’s not sure his mouth is cooperating. “It’s really _that awful_ having me here for ten seconds?”

“Yes. Now get out, I can’t stand the sight of you.”

He doesn’t smile, but David does. And there’s some faraway part of his brain that muses - just for a moment - that before, he probably would have had to wonder. Some small piece of him would doubt and panic and try to convince him that Patrick really means it. That he’s teasing to cover up the fact that he really doesn’t want David here, that he really can’t handle interacting with David any more than he was expecting to. But David doesn’t think that, even a little bit. He just… knows. 

Still, he’s not going to _not_ act offended. It’s offensive, after all, regardless of playful intention. “Well, fine. If my presence is so _unbearable,_ I’ll relieve you of it. Because I’m considerate like that. Very self-sacrificing.” He indulges himself in a rather spectacular huff as he makes his way to the door, and he pretends that he doesn’t hear Patrick laughing behind him. The bell rings over his head, and-

“David.”

He spins around, already trying to anticipate the perfect comeback he’ll need to craft. “Hm?”

Patrick looks at him, and smiles, and says nothing. Eventually, he nods his head down a bit, toward the cup that’s still in his hands. “Thanks.”

The one-liners come to David immediately, an entire list of them, sorted on a scale from ‘mildly sarcastic’ to ‘scathing’. He doesn’t even have to try; they appear in his brain, fully formed. But he doesn’t say any of them. Somehow, even though they come to him so easily, it’s even easier for him to smile and say, “You’re welcome.”

2

The problem with the store being quiet is that nothing’s making any noise. David turned off the ‘Store Open’ playlist, but forgot to turn on the ‘Store Closed’ playlist, and neither of them have thought to correct this. So the store itself is eerily quiet. But that normally wouldn’t matter. Even if there isn’t music, it’s usually not _silent_ like this. There’s usually still noise.

Talking. There’s usually talking.

There sure as fuck isn’t any talking tonight.

The quiet of the store makes everything else feel so _loud._ David’s reorganizing, and the clatter of Patrick on the keyboard - most nights David doesn’t even notice the mundane sounds over their conversation. And suddenly, without the conversation there, it’s all so loud. The silence is so fucking loud and what the fuck is that about?

Then again, he’s not actually sure which is louder: the silence, or the tension. Annoyance is pretty deafening, now that he’s really listening to it. Every time he hears Patrick clear his throat or shuffle a paper, it _digs_ at David’s patience, one more tiny little prick in a day that’s left him feeling like a pincushion. And, of course, his own annoyance at the tiniest of sounds makes him aware that every time _he_ moves a jar or sets down a spray bottle or creaks a floorboard or exists a little too audibly, it’s probably annoying Patrick just as much. Mutually assured destruction, but much sadder. Much stupider. 

The stupidity is the worst part of it, honestly. David has never had a problem with dying on ridiculous and petty hills, but this is different. He’s used to aggravating people because he realizes that he’s wrong and he doesn’t want to admit it. He’s not used to aggravating someone because he’s right.

He stops, and makes himself take a breath.

They’re… they’re _both_ right.

In the discussion, they’re both right.

Which means that in the fight, they’re both wrong. 

Which is _infuriating._

Not that it’s a fight, per se. That word is a touch too strong for this. Probably. It’s probably not a fight. It’s a discussion that got too heated and led to annoyance. It’s nothing. 

It’s nothing.

David is right, because they absolutely need to expand their selection of alcohol in the store to more than just wine, and he’s been meeting with potential vendors for _weeks,_ and the one he wants is literally the only one with a product good enough for his brand, and with the strength of their alcohol sales so far it will _obviously_ be a good business decision to get a superior product. 

But. Also. Yes, he has to admit that Patrick is _also_ right. Because the proposal they’d gotten from the distillery is… less-than-ideal… it’s shit, and they seem snobbish and difficult to work with, and the numbers looked gross even to David’s understanding of numbers and the whole thing seems risky and unpleasant. 

So they’re both right, and they both know that they’re both right, so there’s no goddamn fucking reason for either them to have gotten pissy about it. 

It was just a stressful discussion in the middle of a long week in the middle of a quarter where profits aren’t anywhere near where they’re supposed to be and they have a lot to be stressed about that they’re usually not stressing about so it was a _bad_ time and a stupid fight and it’s fine. It’s _fine,_ it’s nothing. They both know that they’re right (and wrong) and it’s dumb and neither of them _want_ to be fighting about this, so… 

So it’s fine. They’ll get some sleep, come back tomorrow, talk about it without all the pissiness, and that’ll be that. This isn’t a _thing,_ it’s not really an issue. It’s just a bad day. 

A bad fucking shit fucked goddamned fucking _hell_ of a day.

Patrick finishes in the back room right as David is almost finished getting the trash emptied and tied off. David hates taking out the trash. Patrick usually has to prod and needle and remind and nag and nag and _nag_ him - and then he usually gives up and does it himself. So this is a perfect opportunity. Patrick could make a smartass comment about David actually doing work without having to be told. Or David could make a smartass comment about how magnanimous he’s being, doing one of Patrick’s jobs for him. Either way, a perfect opportunity for something snarky. 

Neither of them say anything.

Okay. This is fine.

It’s fine.

It’s horrible. It’s fucking horrible. 

Alright, enough of this.

“I can do this alone,” David starts, and immediately regrets his word choice. “I mean- I can finish up here. You can… go.” Fuck, it’s supposed to be a nice offer, why does it sound like a command, why does he sound like an absolute _dick?_

(Patrick would have been able to make it sound nice, and right now, David hates him a little for that.)

Patrick doesn’t even look up from the register. “It’s fine.”

“Right, but I’m saying. You opened? And I-” didn’t get in until after eleven, “didn’t. So, in the interest of. Fairness.”

Patrick sighs - but that means he’s thinking about it. David doesn’t want to watch him think about it, so he goes back to tying the trash bag. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, a few moments later. “You can handle this. I’ll… I’ll head out.”

Okay, but the hesitation was supposed to be Patrick deciding if he should accept the nice gesture, not deciding whether David can _handle_ closing on his own, fuck. Fuck. David tries to do something _nice_ and he still gets treated-

No. That’s not the point. He _is_ doing something nice, and he’s gonna be nice about it. 

Patrick does his usual self-check pat down - wallet, phone, keys, predictable and responsible and gross. He heads for the door…

He hesitates. 

Because, yeah. 

How do they… do this? They’ve never done this before. They’ve never had a day this bad. They’ve never parted ways for the night like. This. 

Patrick keeps staring at the door, and David can’t fucking stand it, so he asks, “Are we still fighting?”

Patrick’s head tips forward, and he lets out one quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah.” He turns to look at David, and he’s almost smiling. “It won’t last, though.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “And it’s not a fight. It’s just an argument.”

“So now you’re fighting me about whether we’re fighting,” David snaps with feigned exasperation. 

It works, because Patrick laughs again. Happier, this time. Happy. “Sure, David.”

He stays by the door, hands buried six miles deep in his pockets, shifting his weight. He’s thinking, and David hates that he has no fucking clue what he’s thinking about. 

Finally, he moves in. He walks toward David, hands in his pockets, face… something. What’s his face, right now?

“Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

Oh. 

Uncomfortable. That’s what his face is. 

This is how he always asks. It’s not often, and it doesn’t mean anything _else_ (it took exactly one close call for David to put a permanent ban on sex in any building that contains Ray), but still. Patrick asks him this, sometimes. Only sometimes. 

He asks when he thinks David wants him to. 

Which is fine, normally. He asks because David is being extra snuggly, because David is complaining about Alexis, because David says they’ve spent too many nights apart. He asks for David’s sake - most of the time, anyway. Sometimes, he just asks because he wants to. Even when he asks because of David, it’s not like David is the only one who wants it.

Normally.

This isn’t a normal night. 

And Patrick is, very obviously, not asking for himself. 

He could. They could. David could say yes, and it’d be tense and awkward for a while, but then it probably wouldn’t be. They’d fall asleep platonic and silent, and inevitably wake up tangled in each other’s back pockets. And that could be nice. It might be nice. For David, anyway. 

“Um. No. I think, mm-” David tries a flippant gesture to make himself seem more confident, but it just makes the bag of trash in his hands make an unattractive rustling noise. “I think it’d be better to have some time to ourselves? For tonight. Just to… cool down, a little.” 

And, there it is. Patrick’s face goes all soft, like the Pillsbury Doughboy, and it’s so _warm_ that David wants to scream. Patrick puts a hand on David’s neck, and starts to lean in, and David’s heart lurches into overdrive because this is not _at all_ what he was expecting and he’s not ready-

Patrick kisses his cheek. He lingers, his fingers warm on David’s neck, his lips soft on David’s face, and it’s…

It’s too good. It’s not what David wanted, it’s not what you do when you’re fighting (arguing) with someone, it’s not what anyone does to David when he’s spent the whole day being snippy and irritating. It’s not what people do. 

It’s what Patrick does. 

When he finally pulls back, David is almost afraid to look. Because Patrick still has that _look_ on his face like a cartoon character and his hand is still on David’s neck and then he starts gently moving his thumb back and forth and he takes a deep breath and he opens his mouth-

And he’s going to say something _awful,_ David fucking knows it. He’s going to say ‘thank you’ or some other bullshit just because David had the fucking decency to let him have a night alone when he _obviously wants it_ and David has been horrible all day and Patrick is impossible he’s impossible he’s _impossible_ and David can’t let him-

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

Patrick’s eyebrows jump, like he’s caught off-guard (which means he absolutely _was_ going to say something awful and David was right to stop him). But he composes himself, and he smiles. It’s a small, intimate thing that comes so easily - why is it so easy for him to be wonderful, after a day like this? With someone like David?

“Goodnight, David.”

He takes his hand away, and David feels cold all over, cold and happy and still bitter about the fight (argument) and frustrated at Patrick for being so stubborn and irritating and easy and wonderful. It’s not fair. None of this has ever been fair. 

Patrick starts to step back, turn away. He starts to leave.

And for some reason, David can’t have that. It’s too nice, that moment was too warm and good and David doesn’t want to leave it like that. It doesn’t feel real - it doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to have it. He needs something else to be the end of this day, something unimportant, something normal. Something he knows how to handle. Something he actually deserves. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asks, because it’s the first thing he thinks of, and he’s a moron, and he immediately despises himself for it. Yes, he’s going to see his business partner tomorrow, on a _work day,_ at _work._ Fucking idiot. 

Patrick smiles at him - not like he’s _not_ an idiot, but more like it’s okay that he’s an idiot, which feels much safer. “Yeah, David.” And even though it’s not what David asked, even though he doesn’t need to, Patrick says, “Tomorrow will be better.” He says it like he knows. He says it the same way he says things about profit margins and packing lists, like there’s no chance he could possibly be wrong. He says it, and it’s easy for David to believe him.

3

The song is almost over, and David can’t catch his breath. He’s still on his knees, Patrick is still on the chair, and David is folded over, resting his arms and his face in Patrick’s lap while he tries to make his lungs work again. But he’s exhausted, and he’s laughing, and Patrick is laughing (he’s _laughing,_ and David is lightheaded, dizzy with the sound of it), and he pets at David’s hair, his shoulders, and they’re both a panting, giddy mess. 

The song ends, and it’s quiet for a second. Then “You Know Who” starts, and fuck, the music probably didn’t need to be this loud. 

David turns his head, his cheek pressed to Patrick’s knee, so he can gasp, “Did it work?” It sounds weak, tired, desperate for more than just better airflow, but he doesn’t care. “Patrick, did it work?” Because he needs to know. Patrick’s gotten him at least one gift a day all week - on Thursday it was _three_ gifts at once - and there was always something else with them, a card or a text or something sweet and sincere and it was all terrifyingly vulnerable, and were those _all_ individual olive branches? Is this a one-for-one situation? Patrick is laughing and touching him and smiling at him like _that,_ but it’s not enough. David has never done this, David isn’t good at any of this, and he needs to know. 

“David,” Patrick’s voice is so soft it’s almost painful to hear. He touches David’s cheek (and David has to swallow an undignified noise). “We still need to talk.”

David closes his eyes and nods in Patrick’s lap. “I know.”

Patrick nudges David’s head, gently guiding him up and off of Patrick’s legs. Then they’re facing each other, and Patrick’s hand is still on David’s face. “Will you come home with me tonight?”

David slumps, every piece of him crumpling into Patrick’s touch, into giddy, bone-deep _relief._ He tries to nod, but he’s suddenly too exhausted to move. “Mm-hm,” is all he can manage.

They eventually get to their feet, tired and gasping and still trembling with laughter. 

They go to dinner, and they don’t talk. Not _talk-_ talk, anyway. Not about what they need to talk about. They share mozzarella sticks and make gentle jokes about nosy customers Patrick dealt with during the week, about the cookie bouquet David got on Friday morning (and how it was gone well before Friday afternoon), about how Twyla keeps glancing at their booth and then down at her hand in her apron pocket, undoubtedly texting out the news - David bets that the entire town knows they’re back together before they even order dessert. 

They go back to Ray’s, and they don’t talk. The silence is nice. Comfortable, and full. David reaches for Patrick’s hand before he can question whether he should, and Patrick plays with his rings like questioning it would have been ridiculous. 

They’re prepared for an onslaught of Ray when they open the door (Patrick practices his firm ‘Sorry Ray, We Don’t Want to Play Uno Tonight’ voice on David while they walk up to the door). But the house is quiet. There’s light coming from under Ray’s bedroom door, and they can hear the faint sound of the nightly news - which he usually watches in the living room.

It’s considerate, which means that it’s surprising, coming from Ray. But it’s also sweet, which means that it really isn’t.

They get ready for bed, and they don’t talk. It’s a familiar dance - which is odd, considering how few times they’ve done it. David runs through his travel-sized skincare routine while Patrick gets changed and carefully lays out his outfit for the next day, because he’s an adorable boy scout. They bump elbows while they brush their teeth, and when it’s time to rinse, Patrick sticks his entire goddamn face under the running faucet, because he’s an uncultured swamp creature. And it’s easy. It’s strange how easy it is. How comfortable it feels. 

They get into bed, and they don’t talk. There’s the usual business, plugging in phones and setting alarms and turning off lights and rearranging pillows. Settling in. 

The settling in is familiar. The distance isn’t.

David doesn’t want to push anything. There’s still this… stuff. He doesn’t know how to deal with it, or how he’s supposed to be, and it’s all this _stuff_ he’s not used to. So he stays on his side of the bed, and he doesn’t say anything.

Mm.

It’s weird. 

Nope.

It’s bad. David doesn’t like this at all. 

Apparently, this opinion is shared, because Patrick sighs. It’s knowing, and maybe a little amused. He turns on his side to face David. “Alright. C’mon.”

David pretends not to care. He pretends to be only _mildly_ interested in this development as he rolls onto his side. He pretends to not feel anything at all as he waits. 

Patrick presses up behind him. He puts his arm around David’s waist, he nudges his knee between David’s legs, he nuzzles his nose against the back of David’s neck, he cuddles up and _presses_ against him so nicely it’s ridiculous. Spoons don’t fit together this perfectly. This is more. This has a definitive click, a moment where they snap into place, like the sharp thrill of pride and achievement that comes when you finally fit two puzzle pieces together. 

David closes his eyes. And for a moment, he lets himself savor it. It feels indulgent, soaking up the warmth of Patrick’s body and the feeling of being in his bed and just the _moment_ of it all. Anything this decadent should have to be enjoyed in moderation. 

Patrick presses his face even tighter to David’s neck, breathing him in so hard he shakes a little. He whispers against David’s skin, “God, I missed you.”

It makes David shiver in his arms, goosebumps rising on every inch of his skin. It’s thrilling, and it almost seems dangerous, feeling so much at once. He wishes Patrick would warn him before saying things like that. He needs time to prepare.

They’re talking now. They’re cuddled up in Patrick’s bed, and they’re talking. And Patrick is starting it, because of course he is. Patrick is going to talk, and David is going to squeeze his eyes shut, and listen. 

David honestly can’t tell if it takes seconds, or hours, but eventually Patrick says, “I asked Rachel to marry me because I thought it was what I wanted.”

David’s eyes snap open because- fuck. That’s not what he was expecting. Patrick said they need to talk, and they _do,_ but they need to talk about how David’s been emotionally manipulating him all week, how David threw a hissy fit and broke up with him just to say ‘nevermind’ a week later even though nothing changed, how David is needy and unreasonable and over-dramatic and doesn’t know how to be in a real, adult relationship because no one has ever been able to stomach the thought of offering him one. He needs to explain why Patrick’s history was a dealbreaker a week ago, and magically isn’t today. David needs to apologize - for the week he put Patrick through, specifically, and for being like this, generally. 

So he’s not prepared to hear Patrick say this. 

But, maybe, they don’t need to talk about David right now. Maybe, for now, this doesn’t need to be about him. 

“I didn’t ask just because she wanted me to,” Patrick continues, speaking softly, his voice too close to David’s skin. “I thought it was…” he breathes out, searching for the words. “Being with her always seemed perfect, on paper. We were always so good together, so I assumed that meant it _had_ to be good. That that was… what it’s supposed to be like. What a good relationship is supposed to be. Even if I always-”

He interrupts himself with a sound that might be a laugh. “I always thought- _hoped,_ that it would be so nice. Being with someone, being- loving them. I always thought that being in love would make me happy, and it would be amazing. And then, when I was with Rachel, and I was in love with her but it didn’t feel like that, I just… I figured that that’s not actually how it works. I really thought I was in love with her, and it just wasn’t what I’d imagined. And at some point, I accepted it. That love isn’t… what I’d thought. I’d accepted that being with someone- that loving someone doesn’t make me happy, and it isn’t as good as I always hoped it would be.”

He stops. He’s quiet, for a moment.

Then he presses his hand to David’s chest, and he breathes him in again. “I’m so glad that I was wrong.”

David is grateful that Patrick is clutching him so tightly, because he feels like he might shake apart right in his arms. He feels fragile, small, and the pressure of Patrick’s open hand on the outside of his chest is a much safer and less complicated feeling than anything that’s going on inside it. 

He’s also grateful that they’re not facing each other. He can tell that there’s something happening on Patrick’s face that David wouldn’t survive seeing. He couldn’t handle looking at him, having to look into his warm eyes while he says this-

While he says this- how can he _say_ things like this? How can he trust his voice, where does he find that kind of bravery, that honesty, and why? Why the fuck does he take all of this, and give it to _David?_

David can feel it, now. He can feel the words, every word Patrick just said. Now there’s this… this _thing_ that Patrick’s said, that he’s given to David, it’s out there now, it’s in the room, David can _feel_ it like he feels Patrick’s breath. 

So, he… 

He has to, doesn’t he?

If Patrick is going to give him this, David needs to acknowledge it. Because Patrick trusts him with it, and the really _shitty_ thing about that is now David has to admit that he trusts him, too. He does. 

He does. He trusts him. 

He does, and that means he needs to show it. 

Alright.

Alright. 

Okay.

“It wasn’t the gifts,” David says first - mostly just to make sure his fucking voice will hold (because he hasn’t cried, and he isn’t crying, and he isn’t going to fucking cry, dammit). Once he’s sure he’s somewhat composed, he amends, “I mean, it wasn’t _not_ the gifts, either? I did like th- It was very- you-” he sighs. “I liked them. They were all very good. Very… thoughtful.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh - so David keeps going because Patrick is _not_ allowed to interrupt him with something charming right now. If David stops, he knows he won’t start again.

“I’m- um.” Fuck, how do people _say_ things? How does Patrick always make it seem so easy, even when it’s not? David has barely started and he already wants to dissolve into the sheets. “I’m not used to-”

Fuck it.

“I’ve never been missed, before. I’m not used to people noticing when I’m gone. And I don’t just mean… like this- like, relationships. I mean…” he’s shaking, he feels pulled apart, raw, he feels like someone has clawed into his chest and snapped apart his ribs and is forcing him open, “anyone. I’ve left, a lot of times. A lot of people, and no one ever… I’ve never had anyone care that I’m not around anymore. And I guess I… it sounds- I know it’s. I shouldn’t have, but I… liked it. Because no one’s ever done that. No one’s ever noticed that I wasn’t there.”

It sounds even worse than he’d thought. Hell, it sounds worse than ‘I was extorting you for gifts’ - at least that was predictable, that was on brand. This is something else, its own category of awful, this-

“I noticed.”

Patrick doesn’t even hesitate. He keeps his arm around David, and he says it like it’s easy. Like it’s obvious. “David, there wasn’t a moment this week that I didn’t notice you weren’t there.”

Easy. Obvious.

And David realizes that it’s difficult to feel pulled apart when he’s being held so close. 

Patrick’s lips brush the back of David’s neck, mostly breath, barely even a kiss. They’re in Patrick’s bed, and Patrick is holding him, and he’s kissing David’s neck, and David missed this so much. 

Which is stupid. They’ve only slept here a handful of times, even after four months. It’s not a habit. Spending a week without sleeping together is normal for them. 

But this week felt different. This week, sleeping alone felt cold. David’s never slept in his motel bed with Patrick, but this week, not having him there was so lonely that he almost couldn’t stand it. Because he missed him, even though it was only a few days. He missed Patrick so much.

And Patrick missed him, too. 

David gasps, because he can’t do this. This is too warm, this moment where he feels so safe and held and _missed,_ this moment where he knows that Patrick gets it - Patrick understands everything he’s feeling, everything he felt, he knows that Patrick has felt all of it, too. And knowing that makes David feel so exposed. Having someone else inside his head, having someone else share his feelings like this, it makes him feel naked and vulnerable and what’s worse is that he feels all of that and still feels… okay. He feels all of this, and it’s okay. It’s okay, and it’s not frightening at all. 

Which is terrifying.

David hums, to clear the lump of sincerity out of his throat. “So, you never actually answered me, earlier. I asked if I offered an acceptable olive branch, and you smoothly evaded the question. Which was very rude.”

Patrick laughs quietly into the back of David’s hair. “Yes, David. It was perfect.” He presses another kiss to David’s neck, lips parted just enough for it to feel warm and slick and make David’s breath catch-

“So that’s one. Now you just need another dozen or so, and we’ll be even.”

“See, I knew it!” David wriggles himself out from under Patrick’s arm. “I _knew_ it, I knew you-”

“I’m kidding, it wasn’t-”

“No, you said you need more, I get it.” David starts to get up, trying to get his legs over the edge of the bed.

Patrick grabs David’s arm, pawing, sloppy with laughter. “Babe, please, I’m sorry, I was kidding.” He gently wrestles David down until they’re back on the pillows, but in more of a heap, this time. “I’m sorry.” He kisses David’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

David hums, because he doesn’t want to admit how nice that feels, but…

But also, he really does. 

Patrick is still laughing quietly, with his head resting on David’s shoulder, their limbs tangled together in the sheets. It’s breathless, and familiar. It’s nice. 

David closes his eyes. “I missed you, too.”

Patrick shifts, and David can _feel_ his gaze on him. “Yeah?”

That makes David crack open one incredulous eye, because, “Obviously?” The surprise here is that someone like Patrick would miss someone like David - the reverse is such a given that David shouldn’t need to say it. “But, you knew that.”

Patrick keeps looking at him, something open and unbearable in his eyes. “I do now, yeah.”

The air feels too warm, the sheets feel too soft, Patrick’s weight feels too comfortable, his expression is too… too much of too many things. None of this is real. None of this is supposed to be for him. And this is the type of moment - where he has Patrick’s weight and breath and scent and eyes and teasing and kindness all to himself - this is where David would usually tell himself to enjoy it while he can. While it lasts. That he should savor it, because it’ll be gone soon enough. This is the time when he always reminds himself. 

But somehow, with Patrick tilting his face up to kiss David’s jaw, with Patrick’s hand gently pushing at David’s pajamas so he can touch his favorite spot on David’s hip, he sort of… doesn’t. He knows he should, but… 

Patrick settles his head back into its place on David’s shoulder. He nuzzles his face into David’s shirt. Then he lets out a breath, and it’s so deep and content that it sounds like he’d been holding it for a long time, like it’s a relief to finally let it out. 

So for once, David lets himself believe that, instead. For tonight, David lets himself think that maybe, Patrick doesn’t want to be anywhere else right now. As he starts to feel his eyelids get heavy, as he feels his breathing slow down, his mind wanders. He thinks about Patrick sleeping on his chest, he thinks something about ‘no better place’, and he thinks it makes sense. Maybe for the first time, he thinks he really believes it. 

4

Sometimes it’s hard for David to forget that he’s in Ray’s house. Even as months pass by, even as he spends night after day after night going to ‘Patrick’s place’ instead of the motel, even as he burrows himself into a bed that smells like his boyfriend’s freshly laundered t-shirts and Rose Apothecary shampoo, David still has trouble turning off the blinking sign saying Ray’s House Ray’s House Ray’s House Ray’s House behind his closed eyes. It’s hard to forget the chinz-y wallpaper, the glass dishes of potpourri in the living room, the hubbub of three (or ten or a thousand) businesses in operation outside the door, and the lingering threat of an unsolicited social interaction. 

It is, however, much easier to forget all of that when his face is buried between Patrick’s thighs.

David loves poker night. It’s not a frantic, silent fumble in the middle of the night, it’s not a quick blowjob in the stock room, it’s not a loaned room from Stevie, or that one really, _really_ desperate night when they’d gotten a room at the motel (David still doesn’t know how Patrick survived getting that key with _Dad_ at the front desk). This is different. This is privacy, a whole house of privacy, and a whole night to enjoy it.

Well, most of a night. Some of a night. Ray is apparently fucking horrible at poker, and while that usually doesn’t deter him, there have been one or two particularly dire nights where he’s given in and come home early.

David has successfully repressed those memories. 

So it’s not exactly the wild, carefree, marathon experience that David always dreams of, but still. It’s more than they’re used to. It’s still worth it.

It’s still so, so, so, so, so, so, so, _so_ worth it. 

Patrick buries his fingers into David’s hair, just resting, pressing lightly against his scalp. 

David recognizes the challenge of it, and he happily accepts. He shoves Patrick’s legs further apart, getting his knees up and his thighs out of the way. He spreads Patrick open - mouth watering, dick throbbing, gut twisting with heavy, searing hunger - and he tries. 

David lets himself be lost for a minute (or an hour, who knows), lost in Patrick and cherry lube and the towel that they put down because they’re responsible but that’s been lost in the sheets under them because they’re horny, and he tries. Aimlessly, and quite artlessly at times. He shoves his face against Patrick to fuck his tongue as deep as he can get it. He teases his rim. He sucks bruises onto his thighs. He bites and kisses and licks and revels in every goddamn moment, every moan he wrings out of Patrick’s throat, every curse, every indecent comment he makes about David’s mouth, every gentle tug at David’s hair that’s so delicious even though it’s still not what David _wants._

David waits until Patrick’s thighs are trembling. Until he’s incoherent, gasping, and unable to form words beyond the first half of David’s name. 

He waits as long as he can possibly stand it, and then he waits one second longer, and then he works the tip of one finger into Patrick alongside his tongue. 

And _that’s_ it.

Patrick’s fingers finally, _finally_ tighten in David’s hair, and he pulls. _Hard._ David’s scalp fucking aches with it and he cries out around his tongue and his finger and he just loves this, he absolutely fucking _loves_ it. He loves finding exactly what it takes to make his respectable spreadsheet of a boyfriend break apart in his hands. 

It’s not that Patrick doesn’t know how to be less-than-polite in the bedroom, it’s just that it takes some work. He’s very much the ‘But I want you to come first’, ‘But won’t that hurt your throat?’ type of person.

Which is _lovely,_ which is not at all something David would ever complain about. 

But it does make for a nice challenge: finding what can make Patrick Brewer go from ‘You’re working so hard, do you want to take a break?’, to-

“Oh fuck- _Jesus_ fuck, David! That’s so good, you’re so good don’t stop, god David please don’t ever stop David, David, David - _fuck_.”

It’s a nice contrast. 

Patrick’s grip on David’s hair gets even tighter, like he’s trying to pull David further inside him. It’s truly heartbreaking that David can’t comply, but with his entire face pressed this tight to Patrick’s ass, there’s really nowhere else to go. But he can press his finger in a bit deeper, trying to find the right balance of fingering and fucking with his tongue. His scalp is starting to actually hurt with how hard Patrick is pulling, but he wants to savor it for as long as he can physically stand it: Patrick yanking on his hair, Patrick so lost in pleasure that he stops giving for once and just fucking _takes._ And god, David loves being taken.

He loves it for as long as he possibly can. He feels the tension in Patrick’s thighs. He listens to his broken moaning, his increasingly graphic cursing. He fingers Patrick slow and deep, changing the angle, searching - until Patrick makes a sound like he’s dying. He savors the ache in his jaw, the pain in his scalp. He savors, and savors… and savors… 

Yeah, ow. He savors until it’s honestly too much pain to handle. 

Then he moves back, bracing himself against the strain on his hair until Patrick catches on and _immediately_ goes back into button mode, whimpering out apologies and petting David’s hair gently to soothe him. 

But David isn’t ready to say goodbye to Sex-Crazed Patrick yet. So he keeps his finger where it is (still teasing Patrick’s prostate, if the noises are any indication), and he licks his already-slick lips, and he swallows down Patrick’s cock. He’s hard, and hot, and David’s mouth is instantly filled with the sharp taste of precome. Patrick’s thighs _squeeze_ around his face, and it’s all so overwhelming, David tastes him and smells him and everything else, it’s Patrick taking over every one of his senses, all five filled so beautifully, his entire world replaced with nothing but Patrick, filling him, and-

“Stop!” Patrick shoves David away with a messy combination of his hands and his legs. “David, stop stop stop stop stop, fuck.”

David hums, unconcerned. “Is there a problem?”

Patrick scrubs his hands over his face, head thrown back, gasping, _wrecked._ “Too good.”

“Mm, that doesn’t really sound like a problem, though.” David lazily strokes Patrick’s cock with the filthier, slipperier of his hands-

Patrick smacks his hand away. “Don’t want to finish,” he gasps. “Not yet.”

“It’s not good to deny yourself nice things.”

“David,” Patrick says patiently, “we had a plan.”

“Mm-hm, the thing is, you know how bad I am with plans.” He reaches for Patrick’s cock again-

“David,” Patrick says impatiently, grabbing his wrist, “I don’t want to come yet.”

David wriggles his hand free, trying to contain both his grin and his giggles. “Really? Why on earth not?” He presses one finger into Patrick again, and it slides in so easily, and Patrick _groans_ and tightens up around it so beautifully that David can’t hold back a needy little sigh. 

“You-” Patrick gasps again, fingers scratching bright red marks up his own thighs, “you _know_ why.”

“Tragically, I’m also not great with remembering things,” David says through a mouthful of laughter as he crooks his finger. “You’ll have to remind me.”

Patrick huffs, and it’s clear that he knows exactly what David is doing. But for now, he’s apparently desperate enough to humor him. “I don’t wanna come until you’re - _ah_ \- until… until you’re inside me.”

David’s grin splits wide open. “It seems as though I’m already inside you.” He twists his wrist sharply, to prove his point.

“Ah! Ah, _fuck_ David!”

“I believe it’s going to be the other way around, this time.”

“So you _do_ remember the plan,” Patrick snaps. It sounds like his indulgence is starting to slip, but the annoyance is lessened by the way he’s writhing, blatantly _writhing_ on David’s finger. “That’s not what I want in me.”

“Sorry, I guess I’m just not getting it.”

_“David.”_

“I’m not going to be able to help you if you won’t tell me what you want, Patrick. Communication is so very important.”

“Oh my _god,_ David,” Patrick lifts his head off the pillow to look down at him, gesticulating in very un-sexy frustration. “I want to come on your cock, okay? I want to come with your dick in my ass, are you happy now?”

David’s grin feels wild. “Ecstatic.” 

He gets back to it, pumping his finger and teasing Patrick’s rim with his tongue. But Patrick is still grumbling something under his breath, and it gets harder and harder for David to concentrate, because it shouldn’t be funny, and it _absolutely_ shouldn’t be so _cute_ and David’s trying, dammit, but-

Patrick lets out a loud, unhappy noise. “David, could you not laugh while you’re _eating me out,_ please?!”

But really, he should know better, because the huffy, sincere indignation in his voice makes David absolutely fucking lose it. He really does try to keep doing _something_ to Patrick’s ass, but he only lasts a few seconds before his face is pressed into the crease of Patrick’s thigh and he’s _wheezing -_ definitely the least sexy form of laughter.

“Fucking _hell,_ ” Patrick grits out as he grabs David under the arms and hauls him up the bed. David attempts to defend himself, but it’s difficult when his body is shaking with laughter and he’s still painfully hard and his boyfriend is smacking his ass and biting his shoulder (like he thinks David will consider that a punishment; adorable). 

It’s more of a challenge to keep laughing when Patrick starts kissing him, but it makes the kisses sloppy and _wonderful_ so David doesn’t complain. He rests his weight on Patrick’s chest, lets Patrick keep groping and teasing, until David completely relaxes into it, lazy, boneless…

Which is when Patrick decides to pinch the spot on David’s side that makes him _yelp._ He jerks away, trying to escape while he can-

It’s too late. Patrick already has an arm around him, keeping David pinned while he digs his fingers in again and again and again and again and it’s torture, it’s absolute fucking torture. When David tries to flail himself free, it gives Patrick the leverage to flip them over, trapping David between his legs. David puts up a very valiant fight, but his stomach aches with laughter and there are tears on his face and Patrick’s weight is so strong and solid over him and he’s really helpless here. He wants to say something about how awful this is, how they’re supposed to be fucking, not wrestling like repressed frat boys… but he can’t catch his goddamn breath, and Patrick is laughing into the crook of his neck, and… 

Fine. _Maybe_ it’s not totally awful. 

Maybe it’s kind of nice. 

David wants to give into it, but he can’t exactly turn off his body’s panic response to being tickled ( _tickled_ during sex, why is Patrick _like this?_ ) so he keeps wriggling, even though every part of him is exhausted and sore from being too happy for too long. 

Patrick does give it up, eventually. Sort of. He keeps his hand on David’s side - gentle for now, but very clearly ready to strike again if he so chooses. He moves them again, manhandling David in a way that would be ridiculously sexy if the past few minutes hadn’t happened. Patrick gets them both on their sides, facing each other, pressed together from head to toe. He wipes the tears away from David’s eyes, but his hands are clumsy because he still hasn’t stopped laughing. He kisses David. His lips, then his cheek, then his chin, then he scoots down the bed so he can get his neck, his chest, teeth grazing his nipple just enough. 

Everything is tired, and loud. They’re breathing too hard, gasping, laughing. David runs his hand across Patrick’s shoulders, and he feels them shaking. It’s a mess of contradictions: Patrick’s kisses feel frantic and lazy, David is desperate and exhausted, the room is silent and loud. David is furious that Patrick is like this. David has never felt this happy. 

Patrick’s mouth never leaves David’s skin. He leaves a trail of hickeys on his stomach, then his hips. He’s _still_ laughing. He nips David’s side, right in the ticklish spot. 

“Fuck!” David shrieks. And when that makes Patrick laugh harder, he groans. “Awful. You’re a mean, _awful_ man. I hate you.”

Patrick laughs with his face pressed to David’s stomach. “Well, I-”

He stops, and he lifts his face to look up at David. His head is tilted to the side. His eyes are bright, with tears of laughter smeared everywhere. His mouth is split open in a crooked, gasping grin. He looks so disbelieving and _happy_ that it makes something ache in the pit of David’s stomach.

“You?” David prompts, trying his best to sound annoyed.

“I-” Patrick’s jaw flaps a few times. “I…” 

Then he laughs again, and lets his head fall onto David’s hip. “I- I need you, David. Please.” His hands start wandering in a very impolite manner. “I need you. David, please, fuck me. I need it.” He kisses and licks and nips David’s stomach, still shaking. “Fuck me, fuck me David, _please,_ I need you inside me. Please, let me have it. Let me have you.”

David is trapped in a wonderful, agonizing place between laughter and intense arousal. Dirty talk wasn’t exactly one of Patrick’s fortes coming into this, so having him this vocal is still a rare treat. And David must exploit it.

“Unfortunately, I have a rule that I don’t fuck people who tickle me.”

Patrick bites David’s hip. “Please?”

“No.” 

“But I said please!”

“You need to learn that your actions have consequences.”

“But I said please very _nicely._ ”

David tries to bite down his smirk. “Could have been nicer.”

Patrick looks up again, with something in his eyes and on his lips that’s downright wicked. “Oh, I can ask nicer.”

David hums in an attempt to feign disinterest. He’s honestly not sure how much legitimate _begging_ he can handle from Patrick Brewer before it makes him lose his entire goddamn mind - especially with his face so close to David’s cock, with the way he’s licking his lips, with that godawful fucking _confidence_ on his face, the look he always gets when he has a job that he’s going to do and do perfectly until it’s done. David’s not sure he’ll be able to handle a single second of it.

Then again, he figures there’s no harm in trying.

5

David can feel his breathing. It’s steady. It’s slow. And it’s all around him. That doesn’t seem like it should be right, but it definitely is. He breathes in, and he feels it press up against him. He breathes out, and it all relaxes. It’s nice. It’s soft, and warm. He feels it the most in his hair. He feels his hair breathing in with him, out with him, and that’s weird, and he’s breathing through his mouth (ew, why is he doing that? Definitely incorrect), and everything breathes with him, and it’s softest in his hair, it’s like fingers…

Oh.

Fingers. In his hair. It’s not his breath, it’s fingers. Stroking his scalp. Tracing the shape of his ear. It’s nice. He wonders why it’s happening. He wonders why he gets to feel so good. Fingers in his hair, breathing with him, through his mouth. It’s probably Patrick, isn’t it?

Mm. _Patrick._

It’s such a nice name. He should say it. He loves saying it. It feels so good in his mouth, it feels soft and smooth, and his mouth is already open, so he really should…

He should… something. He was gonna do something. It’s all distant now. It was just close, but now it’s getting… far away…

David breathes in.

He wakes up again. He’s not sure when he woke up last time. Or when he fell asleep again. Or when he fell asleep in the first place. Was he asleep? He’s waking up, so he must have been, but that doesn’t seem right, it can’t be morning already-

Morning.

_Fuck._

Why does it have to be _morning?_ It was _just_ night, David only barely got to appreciate being asleep and now it’s _over_ and David fucking hates this world and everything in it because he has to be awake now. 

The fingers in David’s hair move down, running gently along his jaw for a moment - and it’s a little less awful to be awake like this… but David makes the decision to keep being bitter. 

Everything takes a breath again, which…

It’s not everything. It’s Patrick. Patrick breathes in, and David can feel it because his head is pressed to Patrick’s stomach. He’s sleeping with his head in Patrick’s lap - which is also incorrect. David doesn’t sleep in laps. He’s vaguely starting to remember curling up on the couch, and this is all getting _very_ incorrect. David does not sleep in laps, with his mouth open, on a couch, at _Ray’s house._

God, is Ray here? Has he seen this? This is not okay.

But, on the other hand: comfy. And sleepy. 

David closes his mouth and swallows until he has the appropriate level of saliva for speech. “Mismmonm?” He’s not entirely sure what he was going for, but he thinks that gets the point across.

Patrick laughs. David can’t hear it, but he can feel his stomach move. “Go back to sleep, babe.”

A spark of unbridled _glee_ lights in David’s chest. “Early?”

Patrick laughs again. “Late. It’s midnight.”

David groans out a long, low, _blissful_ sigh. Because he wasn’t sleeping at all, he was _napping._ So instead of having to wake up, he gets to go to sleep now, and sleep for the whole goddamn night. Sleep hasn’t even _started_ yet. 

It’s getting familiar. Something about snuggling onto the couch after dinner. Something about HGTV playing in the background while they worked: David getting caught up on vendor emails, Patrick finalizing the revised budget for the new quarter. David doesn’t specifically remember lying down, or letting himself drift off. But it’s hardly surprising, once he considers the circumstances.

He lets himself slip back into the blissful slowness of it all, of Patrick’s fingers in his hair, the feeling of his stomach moving with his breath, the quiet click of the keyboard.

Wait. Keyboard. 

That’s not right.

It’s a horrible, horrible, _awful_ struggle, but David eventually gets one eye open. And when all he sees is cheap blue fabric, he manages the even worse feat of turning himself over, so his face isn’t buried in Patrick’s stomach. He has to blink a few more times before his eyes will focus, but when they do, they lock onto Patrick’s laptop, sitting on the side of Patrick that doesn’t have a David sprawled over it. 

And it’s open. David can see an absolutely disgusting spreadsheet, and probably a dozen other open tabs. Patrick’s big, ugly calculator is next to it (he doesn’t use his phone because he likes having real buttons to press which is _adorable,_ he’s fucking adorable). Patrick’s left hand is buried in David’s hair, but his right is typing. He clicks things, and hits something on the calculator, and types one-handed into the spreadsheet, which is inconvenient and stupid and bad. 

“Midnight?” David repeats.

Patrick hums affirmatively. 

David frowns. “Why are you working?”

“I’m the numbers guy. I have numbers to do.”

“Not at midnight.”

“The numbers don’t have a bedtime, David.”

“You do.” And that time is definitely before midnight. Patrick likes things like schedules and alarm clocks and recommended amounts of sleep. He’s gonna be waking up in a few hours and that means he should have been asleep more than a few hours ago. 

But David’s voice can’t get through all of that at the moment, so he just mumbles, “Sleep time.”

Patrick scratches his scalp. “In a bit.”

David grumbles something that he hopes has at least one recognizable curse in it as he pushes himself into a vaguely sitting-ish position, propping himself up on Patrick as he goes. “You need sleep.”

“Soon, it’s fine.” Patrick’s voice is distracted. His eyes don’t leave the laptop screen. He’s got his lower lip between his teeth and that little furrow between where his eyebrows would be if he had any. He’s not typing, but he’s tapping his pinky against the couch cushion so fast that it’s a blur. He’s stressed, he’s working. And it’s midnight.

“Hey.” David squeezes his arm and waits until Patrick finally turns to look at him. “C’mon. It’s time for bed.”

He doesn’t get any reaction to that, so he changes to a different tactic. “I’m tired.”

That at least makes a crack, because Patrick’s face immediately scrunches up with concern. “Yeah, it’s late. You should go get some sleep.”

David wants to roll his eyes, but he settles for closing them for a second instead. Patrick is stubborn, but David’s so used to him being stubborn about stupid things like watching hockey games and using cheap toothpaste that sometimes David forgets how fucking annoying it is when he’s stubborn about things that are actually important, like working so hard that he refuses to take care of himself. 

Luckily, there’s an easy workaround for this particular problem. Patrick may not give a shit about doing what’s good for him when he’s in a mood like this, but when it comes to David… 

“Don’t make me sleep alone.”

It’s certainly on the manipulative side. And Patrick knows it, he absolutely knows _exactly_ what David is doing, because he gets that look, that wry little smile he uses when David is being absurd or petty, when he’s being too much. Patrick knows he’s being played. 

But it works.

“Okay, David,” he says quietly. He lets out a little laugh-breath, and it’s not clear whether he’s laughing at David for the manipulation, or at himself for falling for it so easily. “I just need a second.”

David nods. He hears more clicking, but he doesn’t see it, so he must have closed his eyes again at some point. He trusts that it’s just a second, that Patrick is just getting things saved and shut down, so it’s fine for David to stop pestering and smush himself back into Patrick’s space. He buries his face in the crook of Patrick’s neck, and he wriggles one hand between Patrick’s back and the couch so he can get both arms around his waist, and he gets himself perfectly situated, and he relaxes into it. Every breath feels deeper, and slower, and easier than the last. Because Patrick is warm, and his cheap sweater is soft and smells like him, and it’s all nice and cozy and getting fuzzy around the edges. 

Patrick kisses the top of his head, and he wakes up. 

“Was’n sleeping,” he says automatically. 

“Of course you weren’t,” Patrick says in a soft voice, kissing him even softer. “You don’t sleep on couches.”

David hums in agreement as Patrick kisses his temple. “Or on shoulders.”

“Definitely not on shoulders.” Patrick’s hand slides up David’s arm - which is still wrapped loosely around Patrick’s middle. “And definitely not where Ray might see you.”

David tries to make a noise of disgust, but he can’t quite get it out of his throat, because Patrick’s hand is on his face now, cupping his cheek, thumb stroking his jaw. It feels good, so he tries to lean into it. He tries to adjust his heap of couch limbs so less of his face is hidden against Patrick’s shoulder.

He must succeed, because the next time he wakes up, Patrick is kissing his forehead. The angle is all weird, but David feels Patrick’s hands on him and his lips so gentle on his skin, and isn’t that nice? It’s so nice. It’s so good, Patrick is so nice and good and David likes him, he likes him _so much_ he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to do with himself. He’s not used to feeling so much for one person in one moment - where’s he supposed to put all of it? In the love room with all of his clothes? That’s so far away, what if he needs some of it when he’s not at the motel? There’s gotta be a better storage system for feelings. 

“David.”

“Mm.” David wakes up to the feeling of Patrick’s hand on his neck. “S’nice.” He feels Patrick’s quiet laughter. “Nice, too.”

“David, are you awake?”

“Nn-nn.” He’s asleep, and he’s dreaming. He dreamed up Patrick’s soft sweater and soft hands and soft voice and soft lips. He’s gotten really good at dreaming, lately. 

He wakes up to Patrick saying something against the side of his face. 

“Huh?”

He feels Patrick smile, he can feel the way it moves his lips. “I said let’s go to bed, David.”

“Mm-hm.” That sounds very nice. 

“You have to get up.”

Oh. 

David frowns. He doesn’t like that at all. 

“You don’t sleep on couches,” Patrick reminds him.

“Comfy.”

“Bed is comfier.” Patrick starts moving. It’s gentle, but it’s enough to force David out of his perfect cuddle spot.

“Ehhhhhhh!” David whines, even though he’s pretty sure he meant to say an articulate ‘no’ instead. He tries to grab Patrick and anchor him down, but he misses.

“C’mon.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Come on.”

“Carry me.”

Patrick laughs. It’s open and warm and David loves it, because _he_ did that, he made Patrick laugh. He’s being ridiculous and annoying and too much and Patrick doesn’t want to leave because of it. All he does is laugh in a way that’s so soft, it melts right into David’s chest. 

“I’m not going to carry you. You are perfectly capable of walking on your own.” But even as he says it, he slings David’s arm around his shoulders and helps haul him to his feet. 

“I’d carry you,” David says, petulant.

“Sure, David,” Patrick says, humoring. 

Patrick makes him walk all the way up the stairs, and wash his face, and brush his teeth, and change into the pajamas he keeps in Patrick’s closet, and David honestly can’t tell if he’s finally woken all the way up or if he’s fully sleepwalking, but he hates it, he hates every moment of it. 

“Why are you so mean to me?” David asks, tucked under the comforter, as he hooks an arm over Patrick’s waist and presses his face to Patrick’s chest. 

Patrick kisses the top of his head. “Because you deserve it,” he says, and David doesn’t even wonder for a moment whether he really means it. 

“Why are you so good to me?” David asks, as he falls asleep.

“Because you deserve it,” Patrick says again, and David doesn’t wonder about that, either.

+1

It’s Tuesday. 

It’s barely past six, and it’s already pitch black outside - because winter is a nightmare. There are just enough lights on the street to catch the twinkle of fluffy snowflakes as they fall gently to the ground - because winter is lovely. The ‘Store Open’ playlist has been swapped for the ‘Store Closed’ playlist. There’s been a lot of Ella Fitzgerald tonight, satisfying both David’s thing for jazz and Patrick’s thing for Cole Porter. David thinks this is the epitome of a beautiful, equitable compromise. Patrick says it doesn’t count as a compromise if it’s just the two of them liking the same thing. But Patrick is wrong about a lot of things, and people don’t tell him that often enough. Patrick is singing along while he washes the windows. David is humming along while he mops the floor. 

And, that’s it. 

That’s it. That’s literally, completely, it. 

David looks around for a moment, just to make sure. But yeah, that’s it. It’s Tuesday. It’s an hour after closing. It’s snowing. They’re cleaning up, then they’re going to go make dinner in Ray’s kitchen, then David is going to complain about having to walk home in the snow until Patrick asks him to spend the night, then they’ll fall asleep together, then they’ll wake up and have breakfast and come here to open - and in twenty-four hours, they’ll be right here again. They’ll do all of it, again. 

Patrick is washing the door, wiping away the grubby fingerprints the grubby townsfolk left on the glass. He’s wearing blue. He’s wearing inappropriately tight jeans, and one of the two belts he owns (David checked his closet months ago to make sure it wasn’t just one reversible belt). He’s singing quietly. When he moves to the next pane of glass, he does a fancy little shuffle with his feet, even though he can’t dance. 

It’s a Tuesday, and David is holding a fugly mop, and nothing is happening at all, and he’s so in love he can’t stand it. 

He thought he’d be used to it by now. It’s been a few months, since dog sweaters and Mariah Carey. It should be getting easier, right? Now that they’ve said it, and they continue to say it - at least once a minute for Patrick, and as often as David can manage (a lot less than once a minute). He doesn’t have a frame of reference, but it still feels like he should have… acclimated, by now. He should be used to it. He should be used to loving someone like this. 

Well, he supposes it took long enough to get used to Patrick putting up with him, to dating, to _being_ with someone at all for any real length of time. Maybe it isn’t surprising that it’s taking a while for the next… layer of it to sink in. 

Patrick sprays the glass with cleaner. He sprays three times, to the rhythm of the song, and David loves him. He loves him way too much to just… stand here, just stand here with a mop and feel his feelings. Even a few more seconds of this will probably kill him. But what is he even supposed to _do_ instead? How do people deal with this? What is he supposed to do when he feels this much love, how is he supposed to survive it? How does he get this under control? What-

Oh.

He figures it out, and he doesn’t like it. 

He’s told Patrick a few times. Few enough that he could probably still count them, but many enough that it would be hard to do. 

He’s never said it first, though. 

It feels so much easier to wait. After all, Patrick is always a heartbeat away from saying it. Whenever David wants to say it, he knows he only has to hang on for a minute or two, and Patrick will say it first. Patrick is always saying it. He says it when he says goodnight, and when he says good morning, and when he kisses David, and when they’re in bed, and when they’re in the store, and whenever he’s happy, and whenever he’s sad, and whenever he’s awake, and one time when he was asleep. So it’s not like it’s hard to wait for a chance to reciprocate, rather than initiate. 

But… right now. Patrick isn’t saying it right now, and David is feeling it more than he’s ever felt anything in his life. 

He’s said it before. He’s said it a few times. And Patrick has said it to him - more times than David has heard it from everyone else in his life combined. So, he knows. David knows he can say it. He knows Patrick knows it. He knows Patrick… agrees.

It should be easy, shouldn’t it? To say something he’s said before, to someone who already knows it. To say something _he_ knows, something true. It should be a non-event. It should be easy. It’s easy for Patrick. Hell, judging by how often he’s said it these past few months, it seems like it’s harder for Patrick _not_ to say it. Patrick says things easily, that’s just how he is.

It’s not how David is. 

He stares at the back of Patrick’s head. At his boring haircut and boring henley. And he loves him. And that means he has to do this. That’s how this goes. Everything David gets to have, and he’s honestly going to act like it’s _hard_ to give back something so small? Something that should be easy? 

David takes a breath.

“Hey.”

Patrick turns over his shoulder, and his singing slides into a musical, bemused, “Huh?” He’s smiling a bit. He’s washing the windows. He has no idea what’s going on, blissfully ignorant, clearly wrapped up in the Tuesday of it all. 

David looks at him, and he feels the floor spinning out from under his feet. The pounding of his heart is deafening in his ears. His palms are sweaty against the mop handle. 

He can be brave, for once. After all, it’s just the truth.

He takes another breath. “I love you.”

For a second, Patrick doesn’t do anything. He’s probably surprised. He probably wasn’t expecting it. Hell, David wasn’t expecting it. 

But then, he smiles. It takes a moment. It spreads, it blooms across his face. The corners of his mouth pull back, dimpling his cheeks. It makes him look soft, and his eyes are wide and his face is so open, like he doesn’t think it’s terrifying at all to let David see how happy he is, like he could show David anything, like he wants to show David everything. David’s seen this smile before. It’s familiar - and the realization that he’s seen Patrick look at him like _this_ enough times for it to feel familiar is enough to make David’s throat tighten. 

The moment ends, and Patrick shrugs. “I know. You make it pretty obvious.” He’s still smiling.

David doesn’t smile back. “No, I don’t.”

Patrick’s expression twists into something a bit more playful. “You sure? Because _I’m_ pretty sure that I’ve never felt so loved before.”

David’s impulse is to snap that Patrick must have had a pitifully loveless life in order for that to be true. But… he finds that he can’t do it. He doesn’t want to say anything that could make Patrick’s smile disappear. He wants to look at that for as long as he can.

Patrick takes a few steps in, dutifully avoiding the line between mopped and un-mopped floor. His hands drift forward, like he wants to touch David, like it’s an impulse to touch David every time he’s within reach. But he’s got a rag in one and and a bottle of glass cleaner in the other, so that doesn’t really work for him. 

David realizes that he’s blinking more than he’d like to. His throat still feels tighter than what’s comfortable, so he tries to clear it. “I think you’re grossly exaggerating.” He tries to make it sound flippant, teasing. He misses by a mile.

“Nah.” Patrick takes another step closer. “I think I just pay closer attention to you than you do.”

David wants to have a comeback for that, David can’t let Patrick just _say_ something like that, like he means it, like it’s not a joke. He doesn’t get the chance, though, because Patrick is kissing him. Their lips are closed, and their bodies aren’t touching, and their hands are occupied with cleaning products. It’s just their lips. Just their lips, barely touching. 

David wonders suddenly, desperately, what he could do to keep Patrick from ever having to step back. He tries to think of a way to live here, in this moment. He can’t think of anything outside of this kiss that could possibly be worth letting it end. Well, he’ll need food eventually, but he’s sure they can figure something out. 

When Patrick finally pulls away, David whines. He can’t help it, and it’s pathetic, it’s deeply, _deeply_ pathetic.

Patrick doesn’t laugh - even though he could, he has every right to. He just knocks the bottle of cleaner against David’s hip, and goes back to the window. He starts singing again. He starts cleaning again.

Like it’s easy. Like he can move between that moment and this one like it’s nothing. Like he can kiss David, and smile at him, and tell him beautiful things, and then wash a window. Like it’s normal. Like it’s Tuesday. 

Patrick is smiling, and David told him he loves him, and David thinks there might be a chance that those two things have something to do with each other. The smile, the look in his eyes, the kiss, the way he’s a little lighter on his feet than he was a minute ago… David wonders if he might be a part of that. 

He feels better, having said it. It’s no longer filling his chest so much that he can’t breathe. He let out a little bit of that pressure. He told Patrick he loved him, and even though it’s something he’s already said before, it made him feel better. And even though it’s something Patrick has already heard before, it looks like he might feel a little better, too. 

Is it really that simple? He wants Patrick to be happy. He wants Patrick to be loved. He wants Patrick to know how loved he is. 

And apparently, he can just… tell him. Apparently, it seems like he can tell Patrick that he loves him, and that itself makes Patrick happy. When David parses it out like that, it feels pretty fucking obvious, but still. He hadn’t put it together before. He didn’t know he could do that. He didn’t know he has the ability to make Patrick happy. He didn’t know that by loving Patrick, he can make Patrick feel loved. 

That still seems too simple. That doesn’t seem like it should work. 

David wonders if it was just a fluke. He wonders if it’ll work again, if he tries it. It worked today, when nothing was happening, on a Tuesday. 

He wonders if it works on Wednesdays, too. 

Well. He supposes he’ll find that out tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> Not even Dan Levy himself can convince me that Patrick survived a season and a half before telling David he loves him without there being a few close calls along the way. 
> 
> Title taken from Cole Porter's "[Easy to Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJZ7EypO_G8)".
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I'd always love to hear from you, either here or over on [my tumblr](https://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/)!


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